Georgette Heyer: Powder and Patch

“Of course I am! I-oo!” She gave a little wriggle of delight “Why did you not tell me?” “It is not-one of the things one tells one’s lady-love,” said Philip. “Oh! And today? How did you-persuade Sir Deryk?” “Through the arm. But he had no intention of holding you to your word.” Cleone grew rather rigid

“Oh-indeed? In-deed?” Philip was mystified.

“You did not want to be held to it, did you, chérie?” “N-no. But-I don’t like him, Philip.”

“I did not, I confess. I think I do now.” “Do you? And what of James?” “Oh, James! He will recover.”

There was a pause while Cleone digested this. “Philip?”

“Cleone?”

“You-you-don’t care for Jenny, do you?” “Jenny? Cleone, for shame! Because I was polite-” “More than that, Philip!”

“Well, dearest, no one paid any heed to her or was kind. What would you?” “It was only that-I thought-I thought-”

“Cleone, you think too much,” he chid her. “Next you will accuse me of loving Ann Nutley!” It was a master stroke, and he knew it.

“You didn’t? Not a tiny bit?”

“Not an atom!”

“And no one-in Paris?”

“No one. I have pretended, but they all knew that I had already lost my heart.” “You pretended ….? Oh!”

“One must, sweetest.” “But-”

He drew her closer.

“But never, most beautiful, did I become engaged-twice in one evening!” He stifled the cry that rose to her lips.

“Philip, that is ungallant, and-and hateful!” He laughed.

“Is it not? Ah, Cleone! Tell me, my dearest, what is in your locket?” “Something I meant to burn,” she murmured.

“But did not?”

“No-I could not.” She fumbled at her bosom and drew out the trinket. “See for yourself, Philip.”

He opened it. A rolled lock of brown hair fell out and a torn scrap of parchment. Philip turned

it over.

“Yours till death, Philip,” he read. “Cleone, my love.” She buried her face on his shoulder.

“Your-hair-your poor hair!” she said. “All gone! Look up, Cleone!”

She lifted her face. He gazed down at her, rapt.

“Oh, Cleone-I shall write a sonnet to your wonderful eyes! he breathed.